


Hurt for Fun

by Thighkyuu



Category: X-Men
Genre: oof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighkyuu/pseuds/Thighkyuu
Summary: Reader is a mutant healer that Xavier keeps on the payroll to help heal the X-Men when they got hurt on missions, and Peter keeps getting hurt just to see reader.





	Hurt for Fun

  The first time you saw Peter Maximoff, he was lying unconscious on a gurney in the middle of your infirmary with blood seeping through his clothes.

  You did not stop to wonder precisely  _how_  he’d gotten into his grave state, but leapt straight into action in order to heal his wounds. This was your power, after all, and it was why Xavier kept you on his payroll.

  So you set yourself to work, releasing your power, learning his genes, adapting to his powers to heal his wounds. You knew that later, when you were drained and frustrated, you would curse yourself later for agreeing to work for Xavier. Then again, your position allowed you to help people; a feat you could not do in a human hospital.

  As you worked, cutting off the pieces of clothing stuck to his form by blood, you could not help but admire his excellent physique. He was definitely handsome, at least in your opinion, though you hoped you never saw him again. You knew that if you were seeing him again, it would be because of a near brush with death or a serious injury.

  He woke up an hour after you healed his wounds, dark eyes bleary.

“How nice of you to join the land of the living, Maximoff.” You kept him there a while longer to make sure you’d properly sealed his wounds before sending him off. You were exhausted after having dealt with him for an hour. Did he  _ever_  slow down?

Probably not.

~

  The second time you saw Peter Maximoff, it was six months later and he’d broken a wrist and a leg, not to mention gotten a nasty concussion. But he’d smiled as his friends carried him in, eyes gleaming.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he’d said, and you’d shaken your head.

“Shut up and let me do my job, Maximoff.” There was no annoyance in your voice, simply amusement. To your surprise (seeing as the last time he’d been there he couldn’t sit still), he did as you asked.

~

  The third time you saw him, it was not a week later. He’d somehow managed to get a nasty gash on his arm infected, and you’d merely shaken your head when he walked in.

“You come here often?” His smile would’ve been devastating had you not already turned around to gather bandages.

“Just sit down.”

~

  You lost track of how many times you saw Peter over the next few months, but you did know that by the time he walked in for the seventh visit that the two of you were on a first-name basis. Every single time he came in he opened with a cheesy one-liner, and every single time you would tell him to sit down. Until what must’ve been the thirtieth time you’d seen him in three months.

“Y/N, it looks like you dropped something. My jaw.”

“It looks like you dropped something too. Your dignity.” He grinned as you crossed your arms, eyeing him carefully. You didn’t mind his stupid one-liners, but you thought it was about time to dignify them with a proper response.

“But what about my shirt? It’s made of boyfriend material.” You studied him for a moment, shaking your head slightly.

“Looks too clingy and hard to maintain.”

  So began the most ridiculous of rituals. Whenever Peter would come in - if he was able to speak - he would say a cheesy one liner. And every single time, you would respond with a rejection tailored specifically to whatever the line was. It was a glorious, odd type of friendship, and the more Peter visited you, the closer the two of you got.

  But you could see what he was doing. You weren’t blind, and you most definitely were not stupid. You could see what he was doing in every move he made, every word he spoke, every visit he made.

  He was getting hurt or faking injury to see you. You were certain of this fact as you were certain of your ability to heal. There was no denying it for you, and there wouldn’t be for Peter, either.

~

  You watched as Peter sped out of your infirmary, your arms crossed. It had become a routine for the two of you, for him to arrive every week with a new injury and for you to sigh and fix it. But this time… this time had been  _different_. This time, when you were healing him, running your hands over the part of his body that needed healing - he had large gashes across his chest and stomach - you would feel your heart flutter. You hated it. You’d promised yourself when you took this job that you would not develop feelings for any of the Xavier brood, and yet here you were.

  Something inside you told you that this wouldn’t end well, but you ignored it. You wouldn’t act on your feelings anytime soon, so what could possibly happen?

Your answer came a month later.

~

  You were getting ready to leave when half of the X-Men came running through your door, some holding the door, and others carrying the limp, bloody body of someone. Of Peter. Your stomach plummeted and your heart stopped, your gaze turning icy.  _God, please. Please, don’t let him be dead._

  You set to work instantly, pushing your panic aside and putting all of your energy into saving Peter. There were cuts and bruises and burns  _everywhere,_  and there were a few bullet wounds in various places. Blood was pouring from the various wounds, and you couldn’t help but worry. Could you fix this much damage? You weren’t sure, but you knew you had to try. You vaguely remember asking what happened, but the response was lost in your concentration. The how didn’t matter, not until  _after_  you saved his life. Then it could matter.

  You worked for hours, expending all of your energy into saving his life. The others were scattered around the room, fetching various medical supplies for the areas you couldn’t access while working on larger wounds. Despite pushing the panic aside, you could feel it fighting back to the surface. You couldn’t fix all of this, but dammit you were going to  _try._

  This was beyond even your ability to heal, and you knew it. That didn’t stop you from continuing to attempt to fix each wound, working diligently to try and save Peter, but you were getting desperate. You could feel his breathing becoming more ragged as time passed, feel his body becoming colder and his organs fail through your power. You would be damned if you let him die, and so you kept trying.

  You were concentrating on removing one of the bullets when his eyes fluttered open weakly. Everyone was in such a rush, such a panic, to save him, that they only noticed he’d awoken a few seconds later when he screamed in pain. You stopped, your cringing away momentarily from the sound of agony that left your friend’s lips. You ordered one of the others to find anesthesia while you kept working, trying desperately to ignore Peter’s cries of pain as you pried the bullet from his body.

  You paused as he released a shuddered breath, turning to the others and begging for the anesthesia only to discover that there was none. You turned back to Peter, desperation pushing you beyond the realm of panic. His eyes were fixated on you.

“Y/N,” his voice was strained and quiet, and when he spoke everyone went silent, “Y/N,  _it’s okay._  You-” he paused, his body shuddering and seizing for a moment. You bit your lip, reaching out your hands again to continue healing his wounds, but he weakly lifted a hand to stop you. “You can’t fix this.” Tears were welling in your eyes, and, even though you saw the truth in his words, you did not want to hear them. His breathing was getting more shallow by the minute, and you could feel the death in the air.

“You’re not going to die, Peter. Not if I can help it.” Your eyes were locked with his, pleading for him to believe you. He smiled sadly.

“That’s the thing, Y/N, you… you  _can’t_  help it.” He was barely able to get the words out now, his throat closing up and his lungs collapsing. You were shaking, tears blurring your vision.

“You will not die now, Peter. I’ve patched you up too many fucking times for you to die now.” You weren’t so much telling him anymore as you were telling yourself. He couldn’t die. You loved him.  _You loved him._  His hand gripped yours as tightly as it could, trying desperately to hold on.

“I love you, Y/N.” A broken sob tore itself from your throat then, as his hand fell out of yours. You dropped to your knees, the extent of your power forcing you to feel his heart stop beating and his last breath escape his lungs.

“I love you too, Peter.” The words were quiet amongst the sobs of the others, amongst the roar of grief and death. “I love you too.” 


End file.
